‘Gil left feeling disappointed and regretted having given the mysterious woman his last remaining money. As he turned the corner, deep in his thoughts, he bumped into someone so hard that he fell over on the spot. When he glanced up, stunned, there was a person on the ground opposite him: a pretty young girl with blue eyes. She was looking at him with such a friendly expression that Gil thought, This is my fortune, hold on to it tight. He swiftly helped her up, and because she was not at all angry, he asked whether he might accompany her some of the way.
‘Gil did not let go of his fortune. She secured him a job as a packer in a large business. For she was a seamstress and had many grand customers amongst whom she was able to find something. On Sundays they took walks together. Gil was happy. He loved it when she wore a new dress; sometimes he’d take a pencil and design a different dress and tell her what colours it should be. The seamstress was astonished by his good taste. And because she was an industrious girl who had saved up her money, she persuaded him to attend a tailoring academy so that they could start a business together in the future.
‘Which is exactly what happened. Gil became a master tailor for ladies. And when the grand ladies came he designed wonderful frocks for them, producing coloured drawings that delighted his customers. His wife cut out the patterns and oversaw the sewing, the apprentices and the girls.
‘And the two of them lived happily ever after.’
Little Hélène slipped down from his knee. Monsieur Doby came in, and the cannons at the Front thundered more menacingly than ever.
•
The service corps annoyed Schlump. They did very little work; a few of them would go ploughing in the morning, and then they would pose arrogantly in doorways as if they’d just conquered the entire country.
Once the sergeant asked him what was going to happen to him when he moved on.
‘Trenches,’ Schlump replied.
‘Really?’ the sergeant said. ‘I’ve two cousins with school qualifications who volunteered, but none of them is in the trenches with the infantry. One is with the heavy artillery, the other with the cavalry. Only fools end up in the trenches, or those who’ve been in trouble.’
Schlump said nothing. He knew as much already following his brief act of desertion.
But he didn’t want to be regarded as a fool. Nor did he want anyone looking down their nose at him, and now he regretted not having signed up for the artillery. But they’ve got flat feet, he consoled himself; strapping young men who can march all day belong in the infantry.
So Schlump was annoyed. It was New Year’s Eve and he wanted to enjoy himself. He fetched Carolouis and they went over to Fourbevilles, where the drivers of an artillery regiment had been doing very little for months. Their only task was the occasional transport of munitions to the Front, and for this they chose the darkest nights. Carolouis had his own worries. He talked about his Gret back home, with whom he had a child. But there were French prisoners in their village who’d helped out with the harvest, and he didn’t trust his Gret. ‘If that hussy gets a child from one of those Frenchies, I’ll ditch her and find myself someone else. I mean, there’ll be plenty of them after the war.’ They were sitting in the artillery mess, drinking beer. The place was soon full of artillerymen and such thick clouds of tobacco smoke that they could hardly see each other. The soldiers became louder and merrier by the hour, and some were squabbling over card games. Schlump remained calm and was looking forward to the imminent punch-up. By ten o’clock the beer had run out, and now they started drinking cognac out of beer glasses. Before long all the tables and chairs had been overturned, and the legless staff sergeant was snoring on the floor. As they stormed out at midnight, violent cannon fire thundered down from the north. The drivers stumbled into their billets, fetched their carbines and fired shots into the air like madmen, before returning to the mess.
From that point on, Schlump’s recollection of what they got up to was decidedly hazy. At any rate, it was already getting light when they set off for home. A little snow had fallen in the meantime, gracing the fields with a thin covering of white. Spying these white sheets, Carolouis was convinced that here was his bed. He stopped abruptly and took off all his clothes bar his shirt. Beside him Schlump looked on in amazement. Then he realised that Carolouis was going to bed, so he lay down next to him, although he hadn’t undressed. Soon the two comrades were sleeping peacefully side by side, and Carolouis snored as he dreamed of his Gret, who he didn’t trust.
Schlump suddenly woke up and listened. He could hear a strange ringing and gurgling in his ears. He stood up and felt sober immediately. Next to the path babbled a small stream. Carolouis was still lying on the ground; the two of them had slid head first into the water. Schlump pulled his friend out and tried to wake him, which proved an impossibility. So he covered him with his clothes, then ran back to the village to find a handcart to transport Carolouis back in. By now it was quite light, and people were going about their business. Finally Monsieur Doby gave him an old pram. As there was nothing else and Schlump would not leave his friend in the lurch, he had to make do with this. He found a pillow and left again.
Carolouis was still snoring. Schlump put the clothes at the bottom of the pram and, with tremendous difficulty, Carolouis on top, covering him with the pillow. A hairy leg dangled out here and there, to which Schlump had tied on boots as he was unable to find the stockings.
The two men arrived like this in Loffrande, met with cheerful greetings from the women who were on their way to work in the barns. It was Monsieur Doby, however, who laughed the loudest when he saw the peculiar transport arriving.
•
Schlump cut a solitary figure as he wandered through the snowy fields of France. Over the meadows the bluish snow formed no more than a thin shroud, and on the fields it had melted save for between the furrows, and the jagged dark-brown clods of earth peered out earnestly and silently. There had been a light frost. The broad ruts that the cart had channelled in the mud the day before ran deftly ahead of the wanderer, glinting faintly in the dim sun that peeked through the misty sky. Schlump slung his rifle across his back and pushed up his grey helmet. He was no longer used to marching or heavy baggage. He kept slipping in his boots, so dug in hard with the hobnails; the metal on his heels jangled. He wandered through dirty villages and once again was surprised by the ugly houses. The French people at their doors, their hands in broad trousers, darted him hostile looks, for he was a total stranger to them.
Two days before, the telephone had rung and he’d received the order to march to Carvin. The whole thing was like a dream. Then yesterday, the major from the agricultural section had come and given a short speech in praise of Schlump, even holding him up to the lieutenant as a fine example of a man. Schlump had felt quite proud, but it was of no use to him. He’d still had to pack his things this morning. Estelle had come over with her godmother and helped him roll up his coat and strap his blanket to his backpack. Thick tears ran down her cheeks, dripping on to the crockery.
Although Schlump could picture this very clearly in his mind, it all felt as if it had happened a hundred years ago. He was in a very strange mood; he couldn’t be absolutely sure whether the past few months had actually been real. He was neither happy nor sad. Just surprised and a little dazed. He’d hauled his kitbag on to his back, attached his belt and ammo pouch, and put on his helmet. Estelle had taken a few steps backwards and stared at him in astonishment, as if she didn’t know him. He’d gone over to the bar, where little Hélène was playing with her picture book. He shook their hands, Madame Doby had cried, Monsieur Doby had made a serious face, taken his pipe out of his mouth, given him a meaningful handshake and said, ‘Courage!’ Estelle had disappeared.
Schlump arrived in Carvin around evening time and reported to the sergeant, who gave him a rude look of indifference and assigned him to the fifth platoon.
BOOK TWO
It was dark. The stars were twinkling and glittering, promising an icy night.
Schlump had finally found his quarters. The fifth platoon were billeted in a cellar that was entered via a low door on the street. Schlump went down the stairs. His nose was assaulted by a nauseating stench of people, leather and wet rot, and the smoke from the stove stung his eyes. The soldiers were lying on straw playing cards, writing letters, or devouring the contents of packages sent by girlfriends or mothers. One was cleaning his things and another was delousing himself. Schlump searched for a free corner, dropped his kitbag, undid his belt and sat down. One soldier asked what he was doing there; the rest ignored him. Schlump looked around. The rear door led into a courtyard, but like all doors in France it didn’t shut properly, and an icy wind blew in constantly. The small stove glowed from the wood fire inside it, as did the chimney pipe, for which a hole had been made in the wall. But the hole was far too big and you could see the stars shining in the sky outside.
His soldiering duties were to begin again the following morning. Schlump looked at his things. On the frozen soil his boots hadn’t become muddy, and his belt was still gleaming, as Estelle had lovingly polished the leather. But his rifle was rusty and the metal plates on his heels rattled. He started eating; he’d brought bread, butter and tinned meat from Loffrande. Then he lay down and slept as deeply as only young people can.
They were woken by the guard early in the morning, a long time before sunrise; the stars were still twinkling in all their brilliance. Schlump offered to fetch the coffee, as he wanted to get on good terms with his new comrades. He was given eight mess tins. A soldier from the fourth platoon, which was housed next door, showed him the way. They crept through twenty hedges and clambered over just as many walls and fences; the narrow path had been created by the soldiers. It led past the rear of the plain workers’ houses, through narrow yards, and over all manner of obstacles. The other platoons were there already because their billets were closer to the kitchen. With the mess tins full, they went back along the street at the front of the houses. This way was considerably longer, but more comfortable. The coffee was practically boiling still, and the scalding steam burned Schlump’s fingers. Then an icy wind cut into his skin, making him feel as if the nails were being torn from his fingertips. The other soldier said, ‘You need to wrap foot cloths around your hands.’
They went to practise drill, which Schlump no longer enjoyed. He found it somewhat below his dignity to still play the recruit. The others, his comrades, seemed so young and green, even though they were two years older than him. They were drilled long and hard, and had to run and march until they were roasting hot. Then they practised swarming, and lay down in the snow, cooling their knees on the frozen earth, followed by target practice. The afternoon was given over to rifle drill in an empty factory. For hours they practised loading and locking. Schlump behaved like a convict and sulked the whole time; he was sick to death of all of this stuff. His mind strayed back to Loffrande and the service corps, and he remembered what they thought of infantrymen. Then he marvelled at how thoroughly the factory had been stripped; even some of the floorboards had been ripped out. Finally it was time to return to their quarters.
The soldiers were given neither wood nor coal, so they had no other choice but to steal if they didn’t want to freeze, even though a battalion order had strictly forbidden this. Schlump accompanied two other soldiers on a sortie to pilfer wood. One carried a pickaxe, the others spades. They slipped into the factory where they’d exercised that afternoon, creeping through the cellar door as the main door was locked. It was tricky, because the ladder only had three wobbly rungs. Above them the second and seventh platoons were already busy hacking away at the floorboards. Schlump got down to work. You need to make a mental note of the holes, he thought. You could break your neck otherwise.
A pair of unknown faces appeared from the cellar hole. These were soldiers from another regiment. ‘Oi!’ shouted one of the recruits, raising his spade. ‘Go pinching on your own patch, you bastards!’
‘Shut your mouth!’ the other soldiers retorted, but soon scarpered.
They had enough wood and threw it down into the cellar. There they bagged as much as they could carry and hurried back to their quarters, each one taking a different route. When they were back, one soldier set about splitting the boards, while another fed the stove till the fire was roaring.
And so it went on every day.
•
After a fortnight, the company was told they were moving to L. to dig trenches. Schlump was looking forward to this; after all, it was better than mere exercises and rifle drill. And then they were actually on the march. It was a beautiful day. The sun shone, sparking thousands of tiny diamonds on the frozen earth. The air was clear and icy. They passed rusty lengths of barbed wire and a large military cemetery, the resting place of hundreds who had marched forth in 1914. Past houses that had been shot to pieces, up the hill towards L.
They were given a stable as their billet. The horses were housed below, well protected from the wind and the cold. Above, where hay used to be dried, the recruits were to make themselves at home. Here the wind blew in, for the walls were crumbling, comfortably allowing the air to pass through. The roof had also vanished save for the beams, which towered above them, bare and barren; from a distance the stable looked like a devoured herring. The few sheltered spots were soon occupied and soldiers fought for a scrap of space beneath a beam. Schlump had ended up amongst the Polacks from the first train and couldn’t understand a word of their gobbledegook, for their mouths chattered and rattled away like machine guns. They made themselves as comfortable as they could for a brief rest after the march. Then it was time to fetch the coffee. Before he went, Schlump hid the butter he still had left over from Loffrande, because the Polacks thieved like magpies.
At eight o’clock that evening they assembled for duty again, with rifles, large spades and cartridges, but no coats or kitbags. They marched to the village, which comprised a few miserable little houses, though at least they had roofs. Hussars leaned in doorways just as pompously as the service corps back in Loffrande. Schlump gaped at them in surprise, for he couldn’t fathom why they were at war. To his mind they were only needed for parade, when the Kaiser was there.
The corporals and lance corporals marched in front, and the company was led by a sergeant major. They were allowed to sing for the first quarter of an hour. One of the lance corporals, who knew a whole raft of songs, sang the verses, and the company responded with the chorus.
They had just got to the final verse:
Now had passed one whole year
Since that beautiful moonlit eve,
Once again I sat down here,
And my heart began to grieve.
In the rays of the silver moon that night
I saw a tombstone shining bright.
It read: Here lies a mother and her son,
O wanderer, pray for those who’ve gone.
They were passing a farmhouse encircled by bushes. The company fell silent and all that could be heard was the uniform step, the spades knocking against the rifles, and the canteens clanking against the small picks.
Something whizzed through the air high above the farmhouse – a tiny, fiery red tongue – and exploded with a short, sharp plink.
‘Shrapnel,’ the lance corporal said. The recruits were astonished. They’d never seen or heard anything like it before.
Then the company continued on their way in silence. Schlump’s ankle was sore. He’d got a new pair of boots from the quartermaster. But as there were so few left, he’d had to take what was there. And these new ones rubbed his ankle so badly that he’d started bleeding. Every step was torture.
At last they were called to a halt. The cannons sounded different from the ones in Loffrande. Here they seemed to fire less frequently, but the sound was much more violent, much crueller. It was still two or three hours’ march to the Front, one of the soldiers said. They were on a bare patch of land and could see nothing apart from the night, in which a little snow shimmered.
They were to dig. The sappers had already marked the course of the new trench, and the recruits got down to work. Each one of them was given a section of a metre, in which they had to dig two metres down and two metres across. The earth was frozen solid, and beneath the thin topsoil was hard limestone. It was a hell of a job.
They shovelled all night long. Schlump sweated like a peasant in high summer. But he couldn’t keep up with the Polacks. They were miners from Westphalia and Upper Silesia, and far more skilled at hacking and shovelling than he was. They swore like troopers and were on the verge of giving him a good thrashing, because the large sods of earth he dug up rolled over to their sections. Schlump worked like a man in desperation. Once a shell exploded nearby, and the fragments hissed through the air like a thousand cats, some wailing and howling like cursed souls. The recruits all threw themselves on the ground, but Schlump went on working; he wanted to make use of every moment to catch up with the others.
Finished, the others rested their hands on their spades, and their chins on their hands. Schlump was still working. But it was getting ever slower. He couldn’t do any more. Gradually his limbs grew stiff from overexertion and the cold. The corporal came over and swore at him. But nothing helped. They could have struck him dead; he couldn’t go on any longer.
Schlump Page 6
